


grace on his lips

by thefudge



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Breasts, Creepy Fluff, Diego is sixteen, F/M, Incest, Masturbation, Mother-Son Relationship, Pseudo-Incest, Robots, Uncanny Valley, but let's face it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 05:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: “Try it now, sweetie. Try to get the knife out,” she invites him, her gaze as reassuringly blue and calm as still waters.





	grace on his lips

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [grace on his lips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18233603) by [larasorna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larasorna/pseuds/larasorna)



> ummm, yeah. what about it?

The awful secret about his knives is that he doesn’t have full control of them. His target is perfect if his emotions are in check. Right now he’s too angry and tears blur his eyes. His father just talked him down in front of Luther for screwing up on the last mission. It was a marginal error of logistics, but good ol’ Dad will make sure it’s branded into his skin forever.

He is almost tempted to throw the knife at himself, just to nick the spot, just to give it a scratch to replace the shame coursing through his body.

But he’s not that self-destructive yet, which is pretty remarkable for a sixteen year-old.

He throws the knife haphazardly, aiming it wherever it wishes to go and –

“ _Oh_.”

He hears a soft, feminine gasp of surprise.

He turns around and finds to his horror his mother, standing in the middle of the hallway with a knife jutting out of her chest.

“Mom! Jesus!”

He rushes towards her, the tears of frustration quickly turning into tears of dread.

“ _Mom_!”

Grace’s plump red lips smile without alarm as she looks down at the knife. She chuckles a little. “How did that get in there?”

Diego plants a hand on her waist and tries to pull the blade out but it seems to be stuck. 

“Mom, I’m so s-s-s-orry, I d-d-idn’t mean t-to –”

“Visualize the word in your head, darling.”

He closes his eyes and struggles to contain his emotions. It’s been a long day.

“I’m so – _sorry_ ,” he manages in two haggard breaths.

Grace’s smile widens. “Very good. And you don’t have to be sorry. It does not hurt at all.”

“But – God – I c-could have hit a circuit or –”

“I’m still standing, aren’t I?” she says with a wink. "Let me help you."

She begins by shrugging off her blazer. Then she starts to unbutton her cherry-dotted white shirt. The knife has torn right through it.

Diego swallows. He’s rarely experienced this feeling, standing like a deer caught in the headlights. His training has taught him never to freeze. But what good is all that training if - 

Grace opens up her shirt. 

She has never undressed in front of him or anyone else before. 

The novelty makes him almost forget there’s still a blade inside her.

He turns away quickly because that’s what a good son would do. He wouldn’t _stare_.

“It’s all right, Diego. You see? It’s just a shallow cut. Turn around.”

He exhales slowly. He shouldn’t. She’s just programmed to be nurturing to the extreme. But the old man also programmed her to correct them when they make mistakes. So perhaps this is her way of teaching him a lesson. Showing him what he did wrong. Coyly, sweetly.

If he’s honest with himself - and he won’t be for at least another decade - he turns around for completely different reasons.  

Grace is standing on the threshold outside his room. If anyone passed by they’d see she has a knife lodged between her breasts. They look so real, so _human_. Well, he wouldn’t know, he’s never seen an actual pair. But there’s a terrifying weight and softness about them. Shaped like plump quinces that remind him of the bronze fruit platters she lays on every table, an image of bounty and excess - 

_No._

His eyes careen down. She’s always so generous, so giving with herself. Her body is living proof. This is just part of the arsenal.

“Try it now, sweetie. Try to get the knife out,” she invites him, her gaze as reassuringly blue and calm as still waters. Yet there’s something almost fiendish there: her unblinking attitude, her casual nakedness, which is not casual at all.  The way she carries it is doll-like, yet the flesh vibrates with life underneath.

Diego swallows a hint of sugar at the back of his throat. He can still taste the pancakes she made that morning.

He should pick up her blazer and cover her with it. And then he should call Pogo. All reasonable, smart things to do. Number One would’ve done it by now. He’d be horrified to see Mom looking so…undignified.

But he is Number Two. He’s a disappointment. And he is thrilled and _disgusted_   with himself for being thrilled.

He takes a step forward and gently takes her hand in his and pulls her into his room so she will be out of sight.

“D-do you wanna s-sit on the bed?”

Grace nods, red smile blooming. “That’s a good idea.”

He sits next to her and marvels, throat dry, at the woman-mother who has revealed herself to him.

He knows that babies suckle their mother’s breasts. Does she think – Is this why – does she ever wonder what that's _like_? She always talks about motherhood so reverently. 

Diego pinches the bridge of his nose. Just thinking about it makes him squirm all over and he wonders if he is disgusted or if the parched feeling in his throat is thirst.

“It helps if you put your hand here and pull with the other hand,” Grace says softly, showing him where to touch her.

She is guiding him to her breast, unflappable as always.

Yet the intimacy must startle her too, it _must_. He refuses to believe he is alone in this.

He cups her breast and shudders, feels a sheer drop in his belly.

It’s so fucking soft and warm, how is it so warm?

He runs his thumb over her nipple and feels its grainy texture, irregular and real, and almost moans. Why was she built like this?

He almost starts when Grace’s hand folds over his and tightens, making him squeeze her breast.

“Don’t forget to pull, darling.”

Diego’s head is swimming. Bubbling red waves, like mulled wine, lap at his extremities, seem to engulf him whole.

He realizes – yes, the knife is still lodged in.

He holds onto her left breast, pressing into it for support, crushing its softness between his fingers as he carefully pulls out the blade, inch by inch.

It seems to take a small eternity.  

When the tip is out, Grace releases a soft breath.

It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but he hears it. It’s not a sigh of relief, it’s something else; something strange and haunting, something like muted joy.

His hand lingers only a moment longer on her breast before he tucks it and his knife away in shame.

His face is burning. His whole body is burning. He’d like to stab her again, which is something he has never contemplated. Violence and Mother should never go together. 

Grace’s hand is suddenly under his chin, tipping it up. He’s never noticed how much hidden strength lies in just her pinkie.

“Look at me, Diego. Everything is all right. You've been a very good boy. In fact...you deserve a treat.”

He swallows audibly. _A treat._

He can taste it.

“I’m going to make you some cookies,” she announces cheerily, breaking the spell.

Grace begins to dutifully button up her shirt.

Diego’s body caves in - in relief or disappointment, he’s not sure.

Grace gets up in one fluid motion and brushes off invisible lint from her skirt.

“Do you want some milk with that too?”

Diego licks his lips, shakes his head. His throat hurts with want.  

“All right. I’ll call you when they’re ready.”

She walks out of his room briskly, as if she has served her purpose.

Diego falls back on his pillow, breathing as hard as if he'd done a full day’s training.

He stares up at the ceiling in wonder. Did that really happen? 

His hand quickly travels south. He’s touching himself before he realizes what he’s doing. All he can think of is her lips saying “good boy” and “you deserve a treat” and “do you want some milk with that too” and he puts a hand over his mouth to bury a moan there as his fingers wrap around his –

“Oh.”

The small, feminine gasp of surprise.  

Diego freezes for the second time, unable to disentangle himself.

He looks up with dread and shame.

Grace stands in the doorway, her mouth forming a small, delicate “o”.

“I forgot my blazer,” she explains, bending down to pick it up from the floor.

There’s the shadow of a smile on her red lips.

“Carry on, darling. I’ll have the treat ready for you soon.”

There is no disapproval, no hint of reproof in her voice. On the contrary.

She wants him to be happy. That’s all she’s ever wanted.

When Diego is left alone once more, he closes the door and does as he is told. He may disappoint his father on a regular basis, but he will always be a good boy to his mother.

He brings himself to completion with "Grace" on his lips. 

 


End file.
